


Zavala x Reader Collection

by dngrs_untld_hrdshps_unnmbrd



Category: Destiny (Video Game)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Drama & Romance, F/M, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Self-Insert, occasional smut
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-25
Updated: 2018-03-14
Packaged: 2018-12-19 19:02:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 14,563
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11904192
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dngrs_untld_hrdshps_unnmbrd/pseuds/dngrs_untld_hrdshps_unnmbrd
Summary: Everyone's favourite devoted protector, strutting commander and crochet aficionado in a collection of dramatic, romantic, adventurous and sweet drabbles with you, dear reader. Mostly gender neutral.





	1. The Red Legion Attack

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is inspired by the ordinary City dwellers who take up arms against the Red Legion invasion. 
> 
> And Commander Zavala's feisty feisty strut.

There's fire all around and you don't know what to do. The City has been a safe haven for all your brief years on earth but now it's under attack. Worse, your family's out there somewhere, undefended. 

You grab your rifle and run into the streets. Everything's on fire, people are screaming and running to and fro. In the night sky you see enemy ships firing on the Tower. Your mouth falls open - the _Tower_. It's ablaze. Are the Guardians all dead? Who will stop this invasion?

Determined to find the people you love you set off, heading south toward the market where you know your family are. But a massive alien lumbers out of an alley ahead of you, ten feet tall and heavily armoured. You skid to a halt, staring. What _is_ it? It aims its weapon at you and you don't think twice: you raise your rifle and shoot it between the eyes. It nearly takes the whole clip but it finally goes down.

With shaking fingers you reload, and then continue at a jog, more cautiously now. You make it into the City square and call out for your family. There are people staring at the sky, at the buildings on fire, crying. Then you hear approaching footsteps and your heart starts to race - _oh, Traveler, more aliens._

But it's not aliens. You recognise the hard armour of the Titans, the robes of the Warlocks, the sleek cloaks of the Hunters. There aren't many of them, but they're Guardians, and they're alive. They're walking quickly but carefully, weapons drawn, peering left and right. At their head is an armoured Awoken man you recognise by sight. Commander Zavala. He looks focused but furious as he strides into the square. 

Straight at a legion of enormous aliens. 

His gun is still holstered on his back. _Draw your weapon_ , you think to him as he marches straight at the huge creatures.  _What is he doing?_

Suddenly an enemy ship fires down into the square and a building near you explodes. The force knocks you flying and you lose your grip on your weapon. 

Your ears are ringing and a fine dust coats your body, but you're unhurt. You open your eyes to see the commander swerve from his path and head toward you at a jog. He helps you up, the grip of his large hand strong, and passes you your weapon. 

'Are you all right?' he asks, his voice surprisingly gentle for a man who looked so ferocious just moments ago.

You brush plaster dust from your face. 'Yes - I'm fine.'

He looks at the weapon in your hands. 'Thank you for what you're doing. We've got these enemies. Get yourself to an evacuation point.'

He peers at you, his hard, bright eyes demanding an answer, and you nod quickly. 

Without another word he turns and sees one of the enormous aliens bearing down on you both. He runs at it, and you think he's going to draw his weapon or use one of those powers that Guardians have, but he grapples with it with his bare hands, managing to shoot it with its own gun before turning and firing the weapon at another alien. 

You hear a voice calling your name and turn to see your family huddled in a laneway. Gasping your thanks to the Traveler you run to them. 'We need to evacuate, now.'

You all head for the southern evac point but at the last second you turn back and look into the square. A dozen Guardians are fighting the aliens, firing furiously but vastly outnumbered. In their midst you see the commander, firelight flashing on his armour as he raises his fist, lightning sparking along his arm.

The last thing you see before you turn away is the square explode in silver energy, the commander at its centre. The enemies that haven't fallen shake themselves, and resume their advance. 

 _Let them be all right,_ you think, turning to run after your family. _Traveler protect them._

* * *

**Thank you so much for reading! Feel free to leave prompts in the comments if there's a particular Zavala x Reader scenario you want to read. Friendship or romance, heat or no heat.**

 


	2. The Tattoo Parlour

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story is inspired by several things seen in Destiny. The first is of course Zavala's neck tattoos, which drive me a bit wild. Stern, serious Zavala has tattoos? How many? Where are they? What do they look like? Oh I need to lie down ...
> 
> The second is a quote from the Legend of the Titan mission: 'Before I stepped into my role with the Vanguard I was ... much more spirited.'
> 
> And the last is the Mark of Bluster: 'The Blustery Brew is a favourite City tavern amongst Titans.'
> 
> What follows is a story about Zavala's younger, spirited days, featuring his good friend Shaxx and you, dear reader. Oh, and I headcanon Shaxx as ALWAYS TALKING IN CAPITALS. Big shouty good-hearted boy.

'You're drunk. I'm not doing it.' 

The Awoken man grins at you disarmingly. 'I'm only a little bit drunk.'

Behind him, an enormous man in orange-and-white armour is peering at the tattoo designs tacked up on the walls of your shop. 'I'M GOING TO GET A DRAGON. NO, A TIGER. ZAVALA, WHAT DO YOU THINK OF THIS TIGER?'

The one called Zavala is watching you and smiling. 'We've only had three pints. We're perfectly in control of our faculties, aren't we, Shaxx?'

You look at him narrowly. It's gone midnight and you were about to close up and go to bed. Plenty of people come to you at night to get their tattoos done because they work most of the day, but occasionally that means people coming out of the Blustery Brew a few doors down and making the decision to get a tattoo on impulse. It's one of your personal rules: never ink a drunk person. Ever. 

'THIS TIGER. HE'S PROWLY. WHERE SHOULD I GET HIM? I'LL GET HIM ON MY HIP, SO HE'S PROWLING DOWN TO MY -'

You clear your throat meaningfully. If they've only had three pints apiece then you're the Speaker's left ass cheek. 

Zavala's eyes drop to your arms and he looks at the leaves and wildflowers inked down to your wrists. You can't help but notice how thick and dark his eyelashes are. You've known a few Awoken, and inked even more, and you've always found them to be unusually attractive. This man, however, manages to be beautiful and handsome at the same time. He'd be a pleasure to ink. 

He reaches out to trace the patterns on your arms with a forefinger but then seems to remember his manners and stops himself. He raises his gaze to yours and the light in his eyes makes your stomach do a swooping thing. 'They're beautiful,' he murmurs. His eyes travel up your arm to where the tattoos disappear inside your sleeve. You see the question in his bright eyes: _Where else do you have them?_

They're all over your body, but you don't go around showing just anyone. 

You point to the door. 'Sorry, not tonight. Come back another time.'

Shaxx has overheard and turns to you. 'WHAT? BUT WE WANT TATTOOS. ZAVALA, SHOW THEM THE CANVAS. THEY WON'T BE ABLE TO RESIST.' Shaxx reaches for the hem of Zavala's tunic and yanks on it. 

'Get off.'

But despite Zavala's protests Shaxx wrestles the Awoken man's tunic up and over his head. He points at Zavala's naked torso. 'LOOK AT HIM. DON'T YOU JUST WANT TO DRAW ALL OVER HIM?'

Zavala clenches his jaw, amused and exasperated. Despite yourself you look, and he's a lovely sight. Broad through the shoulders and muscled, and either he shaves his chest or just doesn't have a lot of body hair because his skin is smooth. He has several tattoos already, two small designs on either side of his neck, some strange dragon-bird thing on his right bicep and a six-sided Titan symbol over his heart. 

He looks sheepish but hopeful as he watches your face. 'I was thinking of getting the Crucible symbol here, on my shoulder.' He twists a little to show you the expanse of his shoulder blade, as yet unmarked by a needle.  

'BEST GUARDIAN I'VE EVER HAD IN THE CRUCIBLE,' Shaxx roars, thumping Zavala on the shoulder before swerving back to look at the tigers. Distracted, he doesn't notice when you step forward and tug Zavala's tunic from his fingers. 

Pressing it into Zavala's hands you lean close and whisper, 'How many pints did you really have?'

He glances surreptitiously at Shaxx. 'Eight. But I promise you we know what we're doing.'

His proximity is making you a little light-headed and you're becoming more and more tempted by the second to push him into your chair so you can ink him. His skin looks very soft and smooth and is a lovely shade of blue. 

He smiles, sensing you weakening. 'What do you say?'

You take a deep breath and look him in the eye. 'No. Tattoos are forever, and you boys have a lot of forever ahead of you. I'm not going to be responsible for some drunken mistake. Now off you go, I'm going to bed.'

The larger Titan protests loudly but Zavala seems to sense that they're imposing and hustles him out. The last thing you hear as you switch off the lights and lock the door is, 'THAT TIGER, ZAVALA. HE WAS BEAUTIFUL. DON'T LET ME FORGET ABOUT THAT TIGER.'

* * *

You don't expect to see the two Titans again but the next evening Zavala is back. It's early and the sun has only just set. There's a rifle holstered to his back and a smear of dirt across his cheek and nose. 

You fold your arms and look at the weapon. 'Are you going to shoot me if I don't ink you this time?'

He looks sheepish, and glances at you from beneath those dark lashes. 'Sorry. I just came in from patrol and I wanted to apologise for our behaviour last night. We were rude to you.'

His smile is infectious and you find yourself smiling back. 'Not rude, but perhaps overly enthusiastic. Your friend really likes tigers?'

'Oh, he does. Wouldn't stop talking about that design all the way back to the Tower. I'm Zavala, by the way.' He holds out his hand and you shake it, telling him your name. He watches you for a moment. 'I still want that tattoo by the way, if I haven't used up all my goodwill with you.'

You remember what his bare, muscled shoulder looks like and your heart starts to race. What's wrong with you? Inking people is a job that you've done for years, a fun job certainly but it doesn't usually get you fluttering like a teenager. You pretend to consider it for a moment. 'All right. But I don't know what a Crucible symbol looks like.'

He thinks for a moment, and then pulls a rectangle of burgundy fabric from his hip and holds it out. There's a symbol stitched onto it in white, two crossed swords inside a diamond. You're disappointed by how simple it is. It won't take long at all. 

'Okay, take off your ...' But he's already unbuckled the little armour he was wearing and pulled his tunic over his head, and your mouth goes dry. He's just as toned and well proportioned as you remember. And so much bare skin. You could waste a lifetime lovingly inking that skin. 

'What, um, colour do you want?'

He points to the Titan mark over his heart. 'Do you have this shade of dark blue? All my tattoos are this colour.'

You step closer and examine it, for a few seconds longer perhaps than is necessary. 'Um. Yep. I've got that colour.' You point him to your chair and take a seat behind him on a stool.

This part is pure ritual, marking out the design and readying your needles, and even though the broad expanse of his back is right there it's easy to concentrate on what you're doing. As you start to ink the design into his skin you talk over the buzz of the needle, and he's surprisingly knowledgeable about books, especially pre-Collapse poetry. You didn't think anyone else read that stuff. He's easy to talk to as well, listening to what you have to say and asking questions. Most people talk about themselves in your chair.

He glances over his shoulder at you. 'Those designs on your arms are lovely by the way. What are they?'

You glance at your forearms. 'Plants and wildflowers that grow in the Cosmodrome. I used to go out and draw them.'

'Used to?'

Damn, you hadn't meant to say that. 'Yeah. It's dangerous out there, you know.'

You hear the smile in his voice. 'Oh, I know. But you can still go out there, to some places, if you're careful and know how to shoot.'

'I can shoot.'

'Well, then?'

For some reason you don't mind showing him. Putting down the needle you pull back the short sleeve of your shirt and show him the jagged, five-inch scar across the top of your arm. 'Got cut up by a Vandal and nearly bled out. Didn't think it was worth risking my neck to draw plants after that.'

He's quiet for a few minutes, thinking. 'How long ago was that?'

'Four years.' And you haven't been outside the Walls since.

Zavala's silent for a long time after that, but it's a thoughtful, comfortable silence. Fifteen minutes later your done and you sit back to admire your work. The symbol looks good on him, and it's pleasing know he'll be bearing something of yours everywhere he goes. 

Once you've bandaged him up and he's paid, and he's carefully put his gear back on, you notice his eyes straying across your ink again, the patterns that he can see on your collarbone. 

Giving him a teasing look, you say, 'You're wondering where else I have them, aren't you?'

'No! No I ... wasn't.' He smiles. 'All right. I was. They're very beautiful. I recognise some of the plants now.' He thinks for a moment, his smile disappearing. 'I could take you out there. I know some places beyond the Wall where it's more or less safe, and you could draw while I keep watch.'

The offer is so surprising you can't speak for a moment. 'But you've got enough to do. All that Guardian stuff.'

'I have free time. There's so much beauty out there, you should see it again. I noticed today that all the wildflowers have come out.'

'I ...'

But you trail off, because his eyes have dropped to your mouth. He steps closer, slowly so you could stop him if you wanted, but without hesitating. You don't stop him, and he kisses you softly. You haven't been kissed in some time and you're not sure what to do with your hands for a moment, but then he pulls you closer and they're resting on his chest.  He feels very warm and solid beneath your fingers, and tentatively you open your mouth and he deepens the kiss. 

He pulls a way a little, and speaking softly his fingers trace a vine that curls up behind your ear. 'It's my day off tomorrow. How about I come pick you up in the morning, around eleven, and take you out to a place I know?'

'Just so I can draw some flowers? Really?'

But he just smiles and kisses you again. 'Really. I'll see you in the morning.' Then he's gone, and you move around in a daze for a while, tidying up and wondering how two drunk Titans wandering into your shop turned into kissing and going outside the Wall for the first time in years.

 _I noticed today that all the wildflowers have come out._ He's out there fighting, and he notices stuff like that? And he seemed to care whether you saw those things again. Smiling to yourself, you shake your head. 

Just over an hour later your hear heavy footsteps approaching and Zavala's large friend pokes his head into your shop, grinning broadly. 

'ZAVALA SHOWED ME HIS TATTOO. IT'S AMAZING. SORRY ABOUT LAST NIGHT. CAN I TALK TO YOU ABOUT THAT TIGER IF YOU'RE NOT BUSY?'

You laugh. 'Of course, come in. Now, remind me, where exactly did you want it prowling?'

* * *

**Thank you for reading! I don't have a tattoo fetish/kink/thing but for some reason the idea of inking Zavala gets me all flustered. I hope it got you a little flustered too.**


	3. Crimson Days

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This story is inspired by the events of several Taken King missions, essentially the ones in which Stuff Goes Badly Wrong and Zavala Is Worried. Good opportunities for some Zavala/Guardian romance and angst. Especially angst. Kind of a lot of angst ...
> 
> All the dialogue that comes over the Ghost is lifted directly from gameplay. There's also a reference to Crimson Days, the 2v2 Crucible Valentine's Day event. Battle couples and rose petals, such a lovely image.

Zavala's voice comes over your Ghost. _[This mission is scrubbed. Guardian, get to your ship and get out of there.]_

You don't need to be told twice. Your heart is pounding in your chest as you fire your sidearm at a group of flickering, approaching Taken, barely seeing them because you're still reeling from what you just witnessed.

Oryx. Massive. Preternatural. Powerful. You could feel him hungering for you Light.

Taken begin to close in around you and you diligently drop each one, a gnawing feeling in your belly. The glowing black and white holes all around you, windows into nothingness, fill you with dread. 

Suddenly Zavala's voice comes over your Ghost again.  _[We have reports of these "Taken" across the system. Go! Get out!]_

You've never heard him sound so urgent before and fear plunges through you. You reload your weapon and run, feet pounding along metal walkways through wave after wave of enemies. You're pummelled by bullets and your recovery mechanisms struggle to keep abreast of the damage. If you fall now you might never get up. 

Finally you reach your jumpship and take off faster than you ever have in all your time as a Guardian, noticing how slippery with sweat your fingers are and how your heart is thundering in your ears.  

Ghost transmits a message back to the Tower. _[Zavala, we made it to our ship. We're heading home.]_

* * *

It's late when your jumpship comes in and the Plaza is deserted. Or so you thought. 

'Guardian.' Zavala steps out of the shadows. He's not wearing his armour and the sight of him off-duty makes your chest feel tight. Memories of him flood your mind, the sort you can deal with when you're feeling strong. You're not feeling strong right now.

The only thing to do is be professional and polite and get to your bed. 'I'm sorry I failed. There were so many Taken. Too many to fight.'

He frowns. 'You didn't fail. The mission was to discover why the Skyburners were transmitting a distress signal, and you did that.'

Oh. Of course. You're not thinking straight. The sight of those sinister, wraith-like creatures closing in on you has shaken you badly. The Hive, Fallen and Cabal are all formidable enemies, but a least they're explainable. The Taken seem ... unnatural. 

'You're all right. That's the main thing.' You don't answer and he looks at you narrowly. 'You are all right, aren't you, Guardian?'

Anger burns through you. _Guardian_. Always so remote, so cool, never using your name like he used to. When will it stop hurting? It's been seventy cycles but that length of time passes by in a blink when you've been alive for as long as you have. 

'I'm fine. Good night _._ ' You push past him and head for the halls. 

* * *

That night you dream of red rose petals and blood strewn on the Crucible arena floor. Of armoured bodies awkwardly clunking together as they embrace in victory. Of laughing. Of a first kiss shared in a shady hollow of the battlefield that seemed like it should have heralded the happiest time in your life. But it soon turned cold, because the first was also the last, and one of you was eager to put it behind you.

* * *

_[Hey Zavala, you wanna see what a beachhead on the Dreadnaught looks like?]_

Your heart sinks as Cayde's voice comes over your Ghost. Why did he have to bring Zavala into it now? He should have waited till the mission was completed successfully before gloating. Gritting your teeth you crouch behind cover, pull the sniper rifle off your back and begin picking off Cabal. Mostly this is giving you time to think how to tackle the Goliath tank that's in firing range of the transmat zone. 

It's big. One blast from a tank shell could wipe you out. And you're out of heavy ammo. 

Predictably, when Zavala speaks his voice is tight with annoyance. _[You've landed a Guardian on the Dreadnaught without authorisation?]_

_[Oh, right, can I have authorisation?]_

Peering through your scope you drop three Phalanx in a row and swallow a groan. Nice, Cayde. Tease the commander while he's annoyed. You wonder if this mission was conducted behind Zavala's back so Cayde could prove he's just as good a strategist as the commander.

But that was part of its appeal for you, wasn't it, doing something that you knew Zavala wouldn't approve of? It's not like you to take pleasure in insubordination, and you worry for a moment if you're becoming petty. 

_[We'll discuss it later. Guardian, take care of that tank or the transmat zone won't matter.]_

'I'm on it,' you reply, and the transmission goes silent. Now it's just you and the tank and a few dozen pissed-off Cabal. Helpfully, Ghost sends down a few crates of heavy ammo and after a fierce firefight you're able to put the tank out of commission. 

As you're picking off the last of the Cabal, Zavala's voice comes over your Ghost.

_[Guardian, Cayde just briefed us on your ... unorthodox mission. Your victory, no matter the method, is a Vanguard victory. You have our thanks.]_

Cayde's cheerful voice follows. _[Everyone loves a bad idea when it works.]_

As you stand on the deserted beachhead you feel hollow, and you realise you didn't want Zavala to accept your actions. You wanted him to be angry, to show some emotion towards you that wasn't polite professionalism. You wanted to start a fight so you could become furious enough with him to say all those things you were never brave enough to say all those cycles ago. Because suddenly he wasn't Zavala, your team mate, your dearest friend, your almost-lover anymore, and you didn't know how to talk to him.

Overnight he became Commander Zavala of the Vanguard, someone you didn't even recognise.

* * *

_[We're going to lose them, just like Eriana!]_

_No you damn well aren't_ , you think as you blast a clutch of Taken with your machine gun. You're firing wildly now, desperately, wasting bullets in your fight to get out of this hell-hole. You holster your weapon and grab the last tomb husk and run for the locked door, dodging round a dozen Taken. 

Bullets thud into your back and your vision goes red as you gasp in pain. Finally the door finally opens, and when you stumble out and see the stars overhead you nearly sob from relief and fall to the ground. You could have been trapped down there forever, like Eris's Fireteam.

That was close. Too close. 

* * *

You see him as you emerge from the hanger and you turn on your heel and walk back the way you came. You'll go the long way round and avoid him. You feel twice as shook up as you did after seeing Oryx. 

But he's spotted you. 'Wait.' His footsteps sound on the concrete, getting closer. You wait, one palm flat against the concrete wall for support.  

He puts his hand on your arm, turning you toward him and squeezing gently. He sounds breathless. 'We thought we'd lost you, Guardian. We thought - Eris was distraught. Thank the Traveler.'

_We_ thought we'd lost you. _Eris_ was distraught. You pull out of his grasp. You were so proud of him when he was promoted to the Vanguard. No one would serve it with more thoughtfulness and dedication than him. At the time, though, you didn't realise just how much his dedication would occlude all else. 

'You ever say my name anymore,' you whisper.  

He stares at you, seeming lost for a moment. 'That's the way it has to be. Being Vanguard leader demands a certain amount of professionalism -'

'Are there rules that say the Vanguard leader can't have friends? That he can't ...' 

_His shaky laugh as he broke the kiss, his hand warm as it caresses your cheek. '_ _I've wanted to do that for such a long time but I could never seem to find the right moment.'_

_'Silly,' you whisper, grinning. 'Any moment would have been the right moment.'_

He straightens, clasping his hands behind his back. 'There's still so much to be done. The Taken threat ... it's graver than I ever imagined. We need to focus. I need to focus.'

_Your heart feeling so full as you half lie, half sit together on the cold ground behind the stone plinth, hiding from Shaxx and the opposition._ _'We're a good team, Zavala.'_

_He helps you up, brushing rose petals sticky with blood from your legs. 'The best.'_

A lump in your throat, you say, 'Do you remember our Fireteam? Remember Crimson Days? We won so many matches together. We ...' You make a helpless gesture, but you can see in his eyes that he remembers what else happened that day. You wait, hoping he'll give you a sign that he knows what you both lost when he joined the Vanguard. But he just stands there, and though he looks sad he also looks stuck. 

'We used to be unstoppable,' you whisper, and this time when you turn away he lets you go. 

* * *

_Thank you for reading! I hope you're enjoying this collection. Leave me a comment letting me know what you think, or if there are any types of stories you'd like to see xx_

 


	4. The Dance Teacher

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> University AU. Drama and M/F sex. (This chapter isn't gender neutral.) I was inspired by the way Zavala fights in his Origins trailer, almost like he's dancing. It's also based on discussions with littleshebear about what a university AU might look like. 
> 
> Zavala's characterisation came out part Young!Zavala, spirited and relaxed, and part serious contemporary canon Zavala. I quite like it and I hope you do too.
> 
> Smut/NSFW warning!

The Crucible. That's what the bar is called, and with a few days to go before semester starts you decide to check it out. You don't have anyone to go with, being new in town, but that's the price you pay for deciding to study the awkward combination of history, philosophy, literature and dance in your third year. 

The DJ is playing meaty house tunes as you walk in at midnight and the rhythm washes over you like a tide. Within five minutes you've abandoned the queue for the bar and slipped onto the small dance floor amid the couples and groups of women. Your eyes stray as you dance, travelling over the smiling faces and moving bodies.

And then you see him.

His movements are sinuous, expressive, and he moves as if through a different medium to the rest of you, one of those natural dancers who has so much grace it makes your heart ache sweetly to watch him. He's good looking too, broad through the shoulders and with a shaved head and dark brows.

When you next look in his direction he looks in yours. And he smiles at you. 

_Well, well, well._

He pauses, and then moves toward you. You smile again when he hesitates, letting him know you don't mind, and he leans forward and says against your ear, 'You're a very good dancer.'

'Thank you.'

He watches you for a moment, amusement glimmering around his mouth. Then he leans close again and says, 'Aren't you going to say it back?'

You blink your lashes at him. 'Why, are you feeling fragile?'

He smiles wider. He's a little older than you but you didn't mind one bit. And he doesn't need to be told he's a good dancer because he aldready knows it. 

'Are you a student here? At Tower Uni, I mean?'

'No,' you lie. The thought of talking about subjects and curriculum right now is boring, but you want to talk to him about other things. The blue of his eyes is electric. You like the smell of him and the way his white tshirt clings to his chest. 

'Can I buy you a drink?' he asks.

The drink turns into heading out front to talk, which turns into making out around the corner against a brick wall with his hips pressed tightly against yours, which turns into leaving together, your hand in his. You like his warmth. It's clearly just a hook-up but he's sweetly affectionate and attentive, walking on the outside of the curb and opening doors for you. Exceedingly gentlemanly.

Until he gets his front door closed and pushes you up against it.

You're wearing a basque with your jeans that has a complicated crisscross of ribbons over the front, and he struggles with yard after yard of unwinding ribbon for several minutes. 'What is this bloody thing you're wearing?'

You laugh, doing nothing to help him, but the laugh turns into a moan as he simply yanks it down and takes one of your nipples in his mouth. 

'The -  _ah_ \- zip's on the - the back,' you gasp.

'Now you tell me,' he mutters against your breast. He peels the ruin he's made of your basque from your body and you're half-naked in your jeans and heels. 'Dancer?' he asks, running an appraising eye over your body.

Clever boy. 'No. Yoga.' And you want to grin at the fleeting annoyance in his eyes, that he was mistaken. It's gone a moment later as he leads you into the bedroom. As you sit on the bed he undresses you, and he frowns at your feet as he unbuckles your high heels, because they're strong and wiry from dance and smudged with old blisters. Then he's intent on easing your jeans down your legs, and you're too distracted to feel pleased about tricking him as his fingers brush against the lace that's covering your sex.

_Strong fingers against rough lace against sensitive skin, why does that always feel so -_

But then he's pulled the lace away too and his tongue curls around your clit and he licks firmly. _Jesus fucking Christ_. 

'Okay, we're getting right to it then,' you say with gasp as he hooks your legs over his shoulders and becomes even more liberal with his tongue. You reach back and curve your hands around the bars on his headboard, holding on. It's been some time since anyone's done this and your own fingers don't feel nearly so good.

You glance down at him and his eyes flick up to yours, those beautiful eyes, and they're faintly smug.

'Did you have somewhere to be by two or are you just super keen?' He doesn't answer, merely sucks a little on your swollen clit before resuming the slide and lap of his tongue. He's good at this, and he knows it.

Keeping your tone conversational, you manage between pants, 'I'm guessing business downtown. A meeting with with investors. I wouldn't want to be late to that either.'

'Are you,' he asks without stopping, 'going to talk the whole time we have sex?'

'Not if there's something in my mouth.'

He laughs softly and the vibrations make you flop back again. Oh god, this is too easy for him, you're going to come in about a minute and he'll get that smug look again. But you also want to come. Maybe you won't have to see his smugness if you sit on his handsome face. _Can you breath down there? Oh dear, what a shame._

But a moment later he stops what he's doing and gets undressed, watching you with heated interest. He seems to have read your mind as he lays down and motions you to straddle him. 'No, the other way,' he says, catching hold of your thighs and turning you so you're facing his legs. His hard, long body. And his cock. You lean forward, your breasts pressing against his belly, and lick it from tip to root. _This man_ , you think distantly as his tongue finds your clit again and his hands pull you tighter against his face, _is delicious._

'Am I supposed to suck this instead of talk?' you ask, your tongue curling around the tip of his cock. 

'You can do whatever you like, sweetheart,' he rumbles against your sex. 'I'm perfectly happy here.'

Whatever you like? Well, then, you'll talk, and you reach for the first thing that comes into your head. 'One times five is five,' you say, licking the length of him again. _Oh god he's thick too, that lovely thickness that you feel from the beginning until that very last orgasm_. You lick him again, teasing him, still not taking him into your mouth. 'Two times five is ten.' _Go on, tell me to suck your cock, I dare you_.

One hand leaves your thighs and you feel two fingers press slowly into you. By the time you've reached four times five he's two knuckles deep and you rear up with a gasp, hands braced against his legs. He fucks you with his fingers as he continues to lick, not pushing very deep or very hard, just enough to leave you breathless and wanting more.

'Seven times five is forty.'

'Thirty-five,' he corrects. 'And you missed a few.'

'Who's counting.' _Don't stop, please_. And because you're about to start moaning and saying all that don't-stop-I'm-going-to-come nonsense you lean down and take him in your mouth, and he lets out a soft hiss of pleasure. And it's probably a rubbish blow job because you have to keep stopping as your back flexes and you moan and writhe against him but you don't much care. And besides, if you put too much into this and he comes he won't be able to fuck you right away. And you really, really want him to.

Then you do come, your face pressed into his hip and your hand clamped around his cock, and he finally pushes his fingers deep, and then again, working against your squeezing muscles and driving the sensations higher. 

Finally the sensations end, drawing a sharp cry from you. You lie against him, breathing hard, until he pushes you down the bed and hooks an arm under your hips, raising your hindquarters up.

'Condom,' you mutter into the bedclothes, but he's already reaching into the bedside table and you hear a businesslike rip of a foil packet. No messing around, then. A few seconds later he's put one steadying hand on your hip and the other seemingly around himself because you feel the press of his cock, seeking entrance.

_Oh god yes beautifully thi_ \- ' _Ah!_ 'You clutch the bedclothes, head rearing up as he sinks into you.

'Well?' he asks crisply, fucking you steadily, pushing a little deeper with every thrust. 'Eight times five?' 

_What's five. What's time_. And it's supremely irritating but you can't think of anything clever to say. Once he's reduced you to a moaning, sweating mess he pulls out and turns you over, but he's gentle about it, kissing you as he pierces you slowly once more. Your arms wrap around his neck and pull him down to you, and he's watching you closely as he fucks you with firm, measured strokes. It would usually annoy you to be watched so closely by a stranger because can't he use his manners and look at your breasts at a time like this? But you're sure he's watching you closely because he wants to do this properly and make you come again and if he's smug about it afterward then who the hell cares. Those eyes of his on your face, dark with intensity, make you feel like you've known him a lot longer than the ninety minutes you have known him and you realise he's not going to be smug after, he just really really wants to feel you come around his cock.

And you do and it's heavenly, because he puts his hands on the backs of your thighs and fucks you with the full weight of his body, forcing your orgasm to go on and on and on. You surface just in time to see him come too, his head thrown back, the muscles roping across his shoulders as he presses even deeper.

He withdraws and messes about tidying up, and you're only vaguely aware as you're staring at the ceiling and breathing hard.  _13/10, amazing sex, could probably waste my first semester in bed with this man. Better not get his number._

And so thirty minutes later when he's asleep you quietly dress and let yourself out, resolutely not looking at his building number and becoming resigned to the thought of a semester of mediocre undergraduate sex, or the memory of this night and a vibrator. 

Smiling to yourself as you flag down a cab, you think, _The memory and the vibrator, definitely._

* * *

'... and the party eventually resorted to cannibalism.'

You sink a little lower in your seat as you listen to Professor Saladin Forge recount yet another doomed expedition. History class is hardly a riot at the best of times but he's managed to squeeze so much death and gloom into his first lecture that all the energy you felt leaving the philosophy lecture on Popper has dissipated. Nice voice, that Professor Shiro. Almost as nice as your mystery man's.

Instantly a pang goes through your lower belly as you remember him. It's been just a few days but you've masturbated about twelve times thinking about him, coming whenever you remember how he sounded asking _What's eight times five_. Bizarre that that's so horny. The horny part is probably the fact that he was fucking you so perfectly at the time that you couldn't answer.

The lecture finally ends and you hurry to the performing arts buildings and change into your leotard and tights. Finally it's time for Dance class, and you've got barre and floor work with Professor Zavala. You hope he's demanding as you're in dire need of a good workout.

The dance studio is a large, white space with a mirror running the length of one wall. Half a dozen students are milling about in leotards, stretching and talking to each other.

Then one of them moves and you see him.

The man from the bar. The man you went home with. 

As you stare, rooted to the spot, he turns his pleasant, open face toward you to greet this new arrival, and he freezes too. He looks at you for one long, charged moment, and then his attention moves on as if he's never seen you before in his life. As if you're not even there.

You move to the barre, your face burning and your head down. The dancer is your dance teacher. _Fuck fuck fuck._

Class passes in a blur. Zavala takes you all through some standard barre work and talks about the curriculum as he wanders up and down the line, correcting movements and asking names. Finally, he asks yours and you tell him.

He adjusts the position of your arms and says, 'A pretty name. A memorable one too, now I've heard it.'

You stare straight ahead, fuming, because you never told him your name and he thinks it was on purpose. 

As soon as class ends you walk out without looking back.

* * *

Your last class of the day is literature with Professor Shaxx. An enormous man enters the small lecture theatre and thumps a pile of paperbacks down on the desk.

'ALL RIGHT. SETTLE DOWN AND SHUT UP. WE'VE GOT A LOT TO GET THROUGH AND I'M GOING TO EXPECT YOU TO WORK HARD. THIS TERM WE'RE GOING TO COVER THE ROMANTICS ...'

Professor Shaxx has begun reading excerpts of poetry in a booming but surprisingly emotive voice and your heart rate has nearly returned to normal when a side door opens and in steps Zavala. Instant heart palpitations. Is he following you? But no. He's about to slip into a seat when he notices you in the back row. His eyes narrow and he walks toward you. He sits down next to you. What the hell?

'What are you doing here?' you hiss.

He stares straight ahead. 'I like poetry.'

It's impossible to concentrate when he's sitting so close. Out of the corner of your eye you can see his muscular thighs in his jeans, his arms folded across his chest. Annoyed and confused though you are, you're suddenly turned on as well. It's not fair. He's your teacher. If he had to turn up again, why here?

The lecture finally ends and you reach for your bag. As the other students file out he says in a low voice, 'I think we should talk.' 

'Sorry, I'd rather drown myself.'

But he wraps a hand your wrist and looks at you with burning eyes. 'No, we're going to talk. Why did you lie about being a student here?'

He's angry. Really, really angry. 'You think I did that on purpose? You think I knew who you were the whole time? Oh yes, because how _wonderful_ it's going to be having you barking at me to keep my shoulders back and my chin lifted all year knowing you've seen my --' you drop your voice, conscious that Professor Shaxx is still at the front of the room packing up. 'Seen _everything_.'

He presses his lips together. 'Then why did you lie? It was a ridiculous thing to do.'

You throw your hands up. 'You were a guy in a bar trying to pick me up and you were so goddamn pleased with yourself. With your dancing, your stupid handsome face. I lied because it amused me and I didn't owe you a thing.'

He seems annoyed, and he looks less like my remote teacher and more like the man who held my battered dancers' feet in his hands. 'I was not pleased with myself.'

There's a cough from the front of the room and you see that Professor Shaxx is looking at you both curiously. _Oh, hell._  

'You were pleased with yourself, you are pleased with yourself, and now I'm going home and we're going to forget about the other night. Goodbye.' You pull your bag strap over your shoulder and stried out, your heart thundering in your ears.

For a first day, that was up there with the worst of them.

* * *

The next couple of weeks pass slowly. Entering each dance class is an agony of suppressed embarrassment, though you find you can relax while you're there and that Zavala is a good and patient teacher. 

Most of the time. 

When you're both focused it's wonderful, and you and he and the class work hard together, making something beautiful. But it's not easy forgetting the night you spent together and sometimes after he's twisted your waist into the correct position or guided your arm you remember how good he felt.

And you start to make mistakes. One afternoon you make a lot, and he and the rest of the class become frustrated.

'You've missed the cue again. It's eight beats and five bars. I've told you already.' Zavala hesitates, and then his eyes sharpen and he adds, 'What's eight times five?' 

Heat floods your face and you stumble out of your arabesque. Zavala restarts the music. 'It seems like someone needs to practice their five times table. From the top, everyone.'

When class ends you wait for everyone to leave and then confront him. 'You utter, utter beast.'

His eyes are flat and cool. 'I beg your pardon?'

'Eight times five. How long have you been waiting to say that?'

He clasps his hands behind his back and regards you solemnly. 'I don't know what you mean.'

'Don't lie. It's what you said when ...' You make a frustrated noise. 'You're still annoyed with me. You still think I knew who you were.'

He's silent for a long moment, and then his eyes drop away, regretful. 'No. That's not it.'

'Then what? How are we supposed to get through this year if we can't pretend that night ever happened?'

He pauses again, thinking. 'I went back to that bar each night before semester started looking for you. I was disappointed when I woke up and you were gone. And now ...' He continues, still serious, still soft-voiced. 'You're funny, and lovely, and a very good dancer. I wanted to see you again.' His smile is bitter. 'And here you are.'

What do they say, be careful what you wish for? 'I like your class,' I say tentatively. 'Most of the time.'

'I like you in it.'

'But I also can't stop thinking about ... what happened. Sometimes I wish it hadn't, but it did and I can't help but wonder, would it be so wrong if we ... ?' 

There are university rules. I've looked them up. I'm asking him to break them with me.

He frowns at the floor. 'I'm not the sort of man who -'

You step forward quickly and press your mouth to his, a gentle, questioning kiss. His frown becomes pained, a look of surrender, of need. He catches you about the waist and pulls you tightly against him, kissing you in the quiet empty space of the studio.

'We can't do this.' He looks helplessly around at the room, the place where he teaches.

You know he means because of the university, that it's impossible, but you don't care. 'In the storeroom then.' You take his hand and a moment later you're inside and the door is closed. 

Then you're both laying on a pile of workout mats and everything else has fallen away.

'Leotards and tights, why are you always so difficult to undress,' he mutters, pulling at the tight, awkward garments, the ribbons on your dance shoes, until you're naked. 

You're too impatient for the feel of him inside you. 'There's a condom in my bag.' 

He reaches for it while you divest him of his workout pants and feel the thickness of him in your hands. 'You carry condoms around in your school bag,' he observes.

'I'm sex-positive and I'm single, of course I do.'

He rips the packet open and glances at you as he fits the latex over his cock. 'I promise you I'm not complaining.' 

He licks his fingers but you're so slick that it's not necessary, and then he's inches deep inside you and you both make noises of desire and relief. 

'I've wanted you right here for so long,' you whisper, your mouth close to his. He kisses you in fierce agreement, and it's better than the first time because you don't need to mask your desire with stupid jokes or pretend for even a second that you don't adore everything he's doing.

* * *

'This is an intervention.'

Zavala's office door opens and you spring guiltily apart. You've been pressed against his side as he leans on his desk, meant to be discussing your written assignment but really recounting the pleasure of last night together. Of the last four weeks. They've been beautiful weeks, of sex and talking and shared moments. You can't go out anywhere together, which is hard, but you can be together in his flat for long afternoons when you both don't have class, and all night as well. He's a quiet, thoughtful man, but he has a wry sense of humour and seems to know just what to say, and what not to say, to draw you out. 

You think perhaps you're falling in love with him.

Zavala lets out a short sigh and relaxes. 'Oh it's you, Saladin.'

But it's not just Professor Saladin, it's Professor Shaxx, too, and they both come into the office and close the door behind them, their eyes stony.

'We know what you're both doing,' Saladin says. 'And we thinks it's a mistake.'

By his side, Shaxx makes a noncommittal sound. 

Zavala folds his arms. 'Oh? I seem to remember you and Shaxx making a similar "mistake". How did that work out for you?'

Your eyebrows shoot up. Shaxx and Saladin are together, Shaxx was Saladin's student?

'I TOLD YOU HE'D SAY THAT,' says the larger man.

Saladin looks uncomfortable. 'It was different for us. There were feelings there, real feelings.'

Zavala turns to look at you. 'Who says it's not the same for us?'

* * *

 

It's a while before Shaxx and Saladin leave, Shaxx patting Zavala's shoulder and Saladin looking grave. Zavala rests his hand on his office door for a few moments, his head bowed.

'Did you mean what you said?' you ask. 'That you have, um, feelings for me?'

He turns to you and exhales long and slow through his nose, frowning deeply. 'They're right that it could be a mistake. And I don't like flouting university rules. I don't like having to sneak around like we're teenagers. I don't like risking my career or your place here. None of that is enjoyable for me.'

A cold hand clenches around your heart. This is where it gets real. This is where he tells you it won't work, despite what he told his friends.

'But I like you. And if the rest of the year is like this then so be it. If it worked out for those two,' and he nods at his office door, meaning Shaxx and Saladin, 'there's no reason it can't work out for us.'

Your heart swells and you go to him, wrapping your arms around his neck and smiling up at him. 'I like you too, Professor Zavala. I like you very much.'

He kisses you fiercely, his hands cupping your face. 'When classes are over and you're no longer my student, I'm going to take you out dancing. And I'm going to kiss you on the dance floor where everyone can see.'

You smile up at him. 'Deal. And maybe I'll even tell you you're a good dancer.'

 


	5. Strange Birds

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Drama/angst | G-rated | Reader with small child | Gender neutral | Spoilers for Destiny 2
> 
> This story was inspired by the idea of refugees on the Farm mixing with Guardians a lot more than they did in the City. I’ve also been thinking about how Guardians would have a hard time adjusting to not having their Light, both physically and mentally. And I was inspired by Zavala’s smiles in his Origins trailer, and how he clearly loves children. His smiles are the best smiles. 
> 
> AFangirlLife requested more angst, so this is for you <3

You’ve never been around so many Guardians in your life. They’ve always been like birds of paradise to you in their strange robes and armour, except that none of them are singing now. They’re sad and wearied on the Farm, nursing injuries with puzzled looks and hollow eyes. It’s the refugees who are able to get on with things. People like you, who are used to the blisters and twisted ankles and trials that make up the days of a human life.

‘I want a throwing knife.’

You look down at your daughter, Nova, all two feet of dirty overalls and tangled hair. She’s watching a Hunter by the Cryptarch’s hut absent-mindedly tossing a dagger in one hand.

'Do you now, poppet. How about this firewood you were supposed to be helping me with?’ _Helping_ is flattering her. At four years old she can barely lift any of the logs in the wheelbarrow but it’s good for her to feel useful. And it keeps her out of trouble.

She looks at the logs and scowls. 'I want to go home.’

You wince, because no matter how many gentle ways you’ve tried to tell her you can’t go home she doesn’t seem to understand, and there’s a telltale whine creeping into her voice. 'Just a few more minutes. I’m nearly done here and then we can go get something to eat.’

'I want to go _now_.’ Colour flushes her face.

Oh god, here it is. Tantrum time. You reach for the logs and throw faster.

A handful of Guardians walk past and one of them stops by the wheelbarrow. Guilt races through you, because it was decided among you all that you would try and make things easy for the Guardians. Without their Light some of them are struggling to cope and they’re the ones who have to go out and fight.

'I’m fine, I can do it,’ you tell him.

But he doesn’t reach for the wheelbarrow, he reaches for Nova and picks her up, holding her under his arm against his side while he hands you the last of the logs. He’s Awoken and clad in red and silver armour that looks like it could use a polish. It’s the commander, you realise, whom you’ve seen around the Farm constantly talking to people when he’s not out on patrol.

You bite back a smile because Nova is staring at him with her mouth open, all trace of tantrum gone from her face. If there’s anything more fascinating to her than throwing knives, it’s Guardians.

As you silently finish unloading the logs together, Nova asks him, 'Did you come in on one of those fast bikes?’

He straightens and smiles at her. 'Yes, I did. They’re called Sparrows.’

'Can I ride a Sparrow?’

You kick an errant log back into the pile. 'The commander’s working when he’s riding those Sparrows, poppet.’

'Ah, but only Guardians get to ride Sparrows,’ he explains to her seriously. 'Do you know what a Guardian is?’

'It’s when you live in the Tower and there’s fire in your hand.’

'Almost. It’s about doing your best all the time, even when it’s hard.’ He looks her over with a frown.

She straightens immediately. Your daughter is always quick to catch on when there was a treat in the offing. 'I can do that.’

'I thought you could.’ He glances at you, and with a finger sketches a circle at the ground which you take to mean, _Once around the Farm?_

You protest that he’s busy, but he gives a small shake of his head and looks back at Nova. 'There’s a package on my Sparrow for Lord Shaxx. I’ll need a Guardian to help me deliver it.’

Nova immediately says that she can do it, and Zavala takes her over to where he left his Sparrow. He sits her in front of him on the vehicle and you watch as they drive at snail’s pace around the perimeter of the Farm and then up to the barn. All the Guardians stop what they’re doing to watch, and they wave at Nova, who waves back, a huge grin on her face like you haven’t seen in weeks. He takes her right up to the open doors and puts a package in her hands and nods at the enormous Guardian who runs some sort of battle arena. A half dozen or so Guardians cluster around, seeming to delight in this unusual turn of events.

'WHO’S THIS? A NEW GUARDIAN? SHE’S A FEARSOME ONE, ZAVALA. WELL, HOW HARD CAN YOU PUNCH?’ You can’t quite see what’s happening, but a cheer goes up and then you hear him boom, 'THAT WAS AMAZING.’

A few minutes later Zavala has come back and parked his Sparrow and is bringing Nova over to you.

_Thank you_ , you mouth at him as he passes your daughter back. Her eyes are sparkling at doing something so wonderful and being at the centre of so much attention.

'Well done, Guardian,’ he says to her seriously, and then with a nod to you he’s walking away.

* * *

Two days later you’re in the barn sorting through crates of fuel cells while Nova eats an apple on the stairs. She’s become something of a mascot for the Guardians since riding on Zavala’s Sparrow and every time a Guardian passes her they wave or give her a high five.

Darkness is falling and the barn is emptying out when Zavala comes down the stairs. He smiles at Nova and then sees you. You sit back on your heels and wipe your gritty hands on your trousers. 'Hello.’

Without a word he helps you to pack away the last of the cells in their crate. Then, in a low voice that won’t carry, he asks, 'How’s she coping with all this upheaval?’

'She’s all right. She’s amazing actually.’ You hesitate, studying his profile. 'Thank you for what you’re doing for us.’

He frowns, like he’s about to disagree with you. Your eyes run over his armour, the mark at his hip. You don’t know that much about Guardians, but you know they loved the City and strove to protect it. You wonder if he’s being so nice to you because he feels guilty. Because children like Nova are who he was protecting it for, and he failed.

When he speaks he’s brisk, businesslike. 'I think it’s good for us to be among you all at this time. It reminds us what we’re fighting for.’

You raise your eyebrows, wondering if he really means that. Guardians always seemed to prefer being up in their Tower, apart from the rest of you. 'Oh, so there’s a silver lining, then?’

He turns to face you, and he studies you for a long time. It’s unsettling being examined by someone with so bright a gaze. 'It’s not the lining. It’s the whole cloth.’

Embarrassment prickles the back of your neck, because maybe that them-and-us thinking reveals more about you than it does about him. You stand up and so does he, and search for something to say. Anything. 

'How is it for you all, without your Light? Did you ever want to be one of us again, a mere mortal?’

He considers this seriously. 'I don’t know. We don’t remember what it was like for us before.’

'I know. But you must have imagined. I mean, we imagine what it must be like to be one of you all the time. It’s one of our most popular topics, in fact. If you would choose to be a Guardian or not.’

'What would you choose?’

You laugh. 'No way.’

A brief smile shows on his face. 'Oh? You’ve thought about it then?’

'Of course.’ And you’re about to tell him exactly why you wouldn’t want to be a Guardian, all purpose and no choice, with none of the normal human joys and sorrows. And to be a Guardian who has lost their Light, that’s even worse because – when you remember that you don’t need to say all this because he knows. Keenly. 

Swallowing, you say, 'Oh, you know. All that armour to polish, forever? I’d go mad.’

He looks at you steadily. 'No. I want to know what you really think.’

Nova comes running over and to cover your embarrassment you hoist her into your arms. When you look up you see him looking at the child’s face. There’s something sombre in his gaze and, suddenly self-conscious, like you’re parading something in a cruel and unsubtle way, you lower your eyes and head outside. You keep walking, your face flushing with confusion, because you don’t know if you imagined his sadness or merely projected your own onto him; sadness that you would carry if you didn’t have Nova.

* * *

'He’s come outside!’

Nova is off and running before you can stop her, and you go after her. You’ve forbidden her to go into the barn without you because that’s where the Guardians do a lot of their planning.

You reach for Nova as she approaches him. 'Don’t bother the commander, sweetheart.’

He looks down at her with a smile. 'No, she’s not bothering me.’

You come forward to take Nova’s hand, but he steps forward too and suddenly you’re face to face with him. 'No. I promise. I’m not bothered.’

His bright gaze holds yours and you don’t know what to say. You’ve wondered if you owe him an apology, or if you should express more gratitude for the things that he and his Guardians are doing, but you have a feeling that he wouldn’t want either. You’ve also wondered if he’s trying to figure things out just as much as you are.

Finally his eyes drop to Nova and he asks her if she’s been keeping watch over the Farm for him. As you watch him talk to your daughter a strange feeling comes over you, something that you haven’t felt in a long time. Something that pierces worry and grief. Even loneliness.

* * *

You overhear the Cryptarch saying she’ll age now she’s lost her Light, and you realise with a jolt that they’re _human_ now. They’re not birds anymore, flying high on strange currents. You can feel them moving around you, suddenly earthly. You can feel him.

* * *

As the days go by you notice that he comes in from patrols with his face lined with more and more worry. You find yourself looking out for his return when he’s out in the field and you want to talk to him but you don’t know what to say. Sometimes you send Nova over with a mug of the wild tea that Hawthorne’s people like to drink, and he takes the cup with a smile for her and a nod to you.

Other days he comes in supporting the weight of a dead Guardian, their arm over his shoulders and their body slung between his and another’s, and you keep Nova away from him. There’s always a fire on those nights and the Farm empties of Guardians as they trickle out to the pyre to pay their last respects. Grief clings to them for a long time after, and the commander looks even more tired. He’s spending more and more time with one particular Guardian, whom you learn hasn’t lost their Light. The only one.

Another refugee remarks to you on a pyre night, 'Why do they all go? Did they all know each other? There must be thousands of Guardians.’

You wonder how he can sound so indifferent in the face of such naked grief. Turning to him you say coldly, 'That’s their family. Those are their brothers and sisters who are dying.’

Nova is sleeping, and you stay up to watch all the Guardians return and head for their beds. All but one. Peering through the trees you see a lone figure standing by the flickering flames, his head bowed. Before you know what you’re doing your feet are leading you out of the gates and toward him. You stand by his side in silence and you don’t even know if he’s aware of your presence.  

Finally, still looking into the flames, he murmurs, 'I’m fighting for everything I believe in without even knowing who I am anymore.’  He turns to you. 'What is a Guardian without his Light?’

His eyes are bleak, and it’s not a question you can answer. You can never know what it’s like to be a Guardian, but you know how to reach out to someone who’s hurting. 'I don’t know. But if it’s any comfort to you, we believe in you, Light or not.’

He reaches out and puts a hand on your shoulder, and slowly, slowly, you step closer to him. He watches you, the firelight flickering over his face.

'Do you want it back so badly?’ you ask.

'The things I want …’ He trails off, seeming more downcast than you’ve ever seen him. 'There are many things, and the Light gave me a way to do them.’

You take a deep breath. 'I’ll never truly know what it means to be a Guardian. But Light or not, a Guardian has the heart he always had.’

And both a little lost, you find yourselves drawn closer to each other in the dancing shadows. His mouth seeks yours, soft and questioning, as if he’s searching for answers in the dark.  

Standing close to each other, arms twined round bodies and breath curling in the air, you watch his mouth, finding the courage to speak. 'If you don’t ever get your Light back it might not be so bad.’ You whisper so quietly that you might not even have spoken.

He studies your face and you know he can see it when you look at him, because you’re letting him see it. The possibility. That you might show him how to live like a mortal again, that it wouldn’t be terrible. That it might even be something wonderful.

His thumb caresses your cheek, and just as softly, he says, 'Maybe it wouldn’t.’

* * *

Something shifts in the Farm’s mood, and you know the end is drawing near. Zavala’s busier than ever before, but he comes to find you one afternoon.

'The final assault is tomorrow. I’ll be leaving in a few hours so I’ve come to say goodbye.’

_Final_ hangs heavy on the air, and you realise he doesn’t expect to come back from this. Your voice cracks as you say, 'I don’t want you to go.’

He pulls you into his arms, him comforting you which is ridiculous when it’s his life on the line. He holds you for several minutes and then starts speaking softly. You can feel the vibrations of his voice through his chest. 'People have gone into battle for thousands upon thousands of years without Light. If I fall I will fall fighting for something more important than myself.’

You pull back and nod, wiping your face. 'I know. I just had to say it. The Traveler chose well when she chose you.’

His finger finds your chin and raises your eyes to his. 'I didn’t mean I was doing it for the Traveler.’

He kisses you softly, and with peace in his eyes he turns and walks away. Sick with nerves you watch him go.

* * *

A day passes, and then something happens. You all feel it, human as you are, a current that runs through the air. A current that could hold birds aloft as they course through the skies. The farm grows restless, waiting for news, but it’s another day before anyone comes.

Then dozens of them come.  

He strides into the Farm, back straight, eyes blazing. Not a scratch on him anywhere. And you know. You can see it in his face, in the faces of the Guardians at their commander’s back.

It’s come back to him. It’s come back to them all.

There’s noise and celebrating and people hugging, but your face feels too tight and it hurts to force a smile. What’s _wrong_ with you? He’s alive and he’s got back the thing that means so much to him. He’s won your home back.

Nova whimpers in your arms and you realise you’re holding her too tightly. You put her down and she runs into a knot of Guardians. A pink-haired Hunter leans down and hoists her onto her shoulders and Nova squeals in delight. There are so many people that it’s easy for you to peel back and watch and pretend to be overcome with happiness. And as you watch you see they’ve become like birds again, swift and untouchable. 

He finds you as things begin to settle down, his face alight.

'I’m so happy for you,’ you say, hearing the wobble in your voice but forcing it flat with all your strength. Because you will not let him know that you hoped it would never come back to him. 'I’m so proud of you.’

'We can go back now. That’s what we came to tell you.’

'I know. It’s wonderful.’

He reaches for your hand and with tears shimmering in your eyes you quickly turn away. 'Thank you for all that you’ve done. That’s Nova calling for me.’

'Can we talk back at the City?’ he calls after you.

But you won’t see him at the City, because you’ll be down there amongst the people and he’ll be up in his Tower. They all will, these strange birds who have nothing but their swift flight, their families among each other that you can’t hope to understand. Even if he comes down sometimes there’ll still be a chasm between you. Of time. Of deeds. Of Light.

* * *

_I got pretty teary writing this, I hope you enjoyed it too <3_


	8. The Red Eves

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After losing her Light a Guardian becomes pregnant during the Red War and struggles to adjust to her new role
> 
> Author’s note: this story is based on a headcanon I had about Guardians getting back all their mortal, biological processes during the Red War, much to their surprise. Or shock, in some cases.
> 
> Drama, angst, minor character deaths, mild smut

“Don’t let them past the gate, the evac shuttles are there.”

You haven’t had a spare moment to take it all in. It’s just you, Arlise and Commander Zavala in the Plaza facing wave after wave of Cabal. Now in the tense moments between enemy assaults it hits home what’s happening: the City is under attack. And you’re losing.

Zavala checks the clip on his auto rifle and slams it back into place. “We will hold this line until the last civilian is away.” His face is grim and determined but like you he’s running out of bullets.

Six pods slam into the Plaza and you and Arlise raced forward to meet the Cabal, but the commander calls out behind you. “ _Incoming. Fall back to my shield._ ”

You both dive into Zavala’s sentinel bubble as the missiles rain down. _It won’t hold_ , you think, watching the shells explode across the barrier. You and Arlise exchange looks.

 _This is beyond nuts_ , her face says.

 _Tell me about it_ , you silently reply.

The two of you fought side-by-side at Mare Ibrium and Twilight Gap, but even those terrible battles seem to have nothing on this onslaught. This is too close to home, the Cabal too organised. The attack has come out of nowhere.

Zavala’s barrier holds, and when he straightens and the shield disappears you gather your Light to ready your own Super.

But nothing happens. Looking over you see Arlise staring at her hand, turning it over and looking at it like she’s never seen it before. All the motes of Light that Zavala generated are melting away. Inside you, something fizzles. A wave of powerful emotion engulfs you.

Loneliness. You’re all alone.

“Are you—” Arlise begins to say when a Centurion lands on the platform and the barrel of his gun swings toward her.

The bullets pound into her, one by one, shredding her gear and flesh while beside her, her Ghost looks on. _[Guardian!]_ Trieste’s normally bright blue optic is a dull grey and her shell droops. _[Something’s wrong. I—I can’t—]_

You pull out your fusion rifle and use your last two charges on the Centurion, and then run to Arlise. She’s dead on the ground and covered in blood and her Ghost is doing nothing. “Trieste, _revive her_.”

 _[The Light]_ says your own Ghost, Solitaire. _[There’s something wrong with the Light.]_

Behind you the commander shouts, “Guardian, get to the evac shuttle!”

You try to gather your dead friend into your arms. The commander comes forward and grabs you around the waist and pulls you bodily off her, dragging you toward the hanger.  

“ _No, Arlise_. Let me _go_.” But he’s holding you so tightly that you can’t fight him off. Shoving you up the steps of the waiting shuttle he slams the hatch closed and calls for the pilot to take off.

“But Arlise. Why couldn’t Trieste revive her?” Solitaire hovers over you, his optics the same dull grey as Trieste’s had been.

There’s an explosion and Zavala covers your body with his armoured one, the metal of his gauntlets digging into the back of your neck as he pulls you close. When the heat passes you reach beyond him for the emergency fire extinguisher and shoot powder over the smouldering electrical cables.

Watching through the port window you’re both breathing hard as the transport clears the Red Legion fleet and heads into darkness.

Amanda calls from the front of the ship. “Commander. Where we goin’?”

Zavala scrubs a hand over his face. His voice is heavy with defeat. “Titan. Fall back to Titan. Use my code to send a signal for the Guardians to disperse across the system and await a rally point.”

“Disperse?” you cry. He looks at you bleakly and that’s when it hits you. It’s all over. The City has fallen.

Trieste made it aboard. She hovers from one window to the next as the earth falls away beneath you, looking for Arlise.

* * *

“I’m going to patrol.”

It feels like you’ve heard that line a thousand times. Said by Sloane. By Amanda. By the commander. By yourself. By the dozen or so Guardians who have dribbled into Titan over the weeks. You’re all crowded together in a few damp, dark rooms with nothing but the surge of the methane sea and the screaming Hive to keep you company during the long hours.

Zavala set the rally point as Titan several weeks ago but only a handful of Guardians have turned up. None of them have any Light.

For you, “going to patrol” means finding a quiet corner to be alone in for a while. Trieste trails after your everywhere you go, a constant reminder of your dead friend. You haven’t got the heart to tell her to leave you alone.

On one of your patrols you find the commander sitting at the end of a dark corridor, and you turn away and head back the way you came. Everyone needs their alone time in this claustrophobic place.

But he calls out your name and pats the floor next to him, and you go and sit down. He’s silent for a long time.

“I’m sorry about Arlise,” he says finally.

“With all that we’ve lost it feels like one Guardian doesn’t matter that much.”

“That’s what you said to me after Twilight Gap.”

You think for a moment, remembering that long-ago battle when you and Arlise had lost a friend. He’d held the line as the order had come through to retreat. You’d all pulled back, and he’d died. Then Lord Shaxx had led the counter-attack and the City was saved.

Zavala had found you walking alone through the City in the small hours of the morning. He was just plain Zavala back then. Tearful, you’d explained, _“Everyone’s celebrating and I hate them so much. It’s feels like one Guardian doesn’t matter.”_

“Am I allowed to ask how the Vanguard Commander is doing?”

He hesitates, studying the metal wall opposite. He can’t say, you realise. “You’re thinking about everyone’s morale.”

Zavala doesn’t reply. There’s nothing to say in this dismal corridor as the screams of the Hive echo through the cavernous metal. Nothing to remember but long ago times.

“Why did you kiss me that day?” He took you back to the Tower on his Sparrow and walked you up to your apartment. On the threshold, in the darkness, he kissed you. Your lips, the tear tracks on your face.

“Because I could back then. And I wasn’t happy in the days after the Gap, either. I thought we could comfort each other. Then I thought it was just better if I go.”

He was sad, too. You could guess why. A great rift had opened up between his two oldest friends and he was caught in the middle.

It had been comforting. You could use some of that comfort now. He looks like he could use it, too. But he’s not plain old Zavala anymore, he’s Vanguard Commander, and as he sits there in silence you feel angry and more alone than ever, so you get up and leave.

* * *

The Hive breeding ground takes hours to destroy and when you finally emerge you’re covered in disgusting yellow fluid from the burst sacs. You can’t even take a shower because there isn’t enough water, let alone any hot water.

On the way back to where you’re all holed up you pass the commander, and he gives you a look of exasperation and pity. “You didn’t need to do all that by yourself. Come with me.”

He takes you through to a storage room, pulls off his Mark and douses it in cold water from a tank. Then he wrings it out and gets to work wiping the worst of the mess from your face and gear. His gentle ministrations feel kind of nice.

“Your Mark is getting all gunked up.”

“It washes well.” 

The smile he gives you is so sweet and unguarded that you lean forward and quickly kiss him. He’s stiff and unresponsive, as you expected him to be. But as you turn away he pulls you back to him and his mouth is on yours in a fierce, proper kiss. It’s as frightening as it is delicious because Zavala is always so correct. “Why are you kissing me? Does this mean we’ve lost?”

He hesitates. “Think of it as good for morale. Yours and mine.”

Smiling, you wrap your arms around his neck and kiss him again, sweetly at first, and then with growing hunger. One by one the pieces of his armour and your gear clatter to the ground. You only have your suits to lay down on but it doesn’t matter. He’s so warm that you don’t feel the cold beneath you. The Hive scratch overhead and he keeps one eye on the door throughout, a sidearm by your head where he can reach it. You allow yourself the indulgence of letting go for a little while. As you open your eyes from your second climax you see he’s looking at the door, and smother a laugh.

Just before he reaches his own he presses the gun into your hand and you point it vaguely at the door, preferring to watch him because he’s beautiful in the semi-dark.

When he opens his eyes he takes the gun back, and hesitates.

You laugh. “It’s all right. You can get up and put your armour back on.”

He mutters an apology. “I would much rather stay down here with you, I promise.”

Rolling onto your side you watch him dress. Even on the floor in the cold, with him looking at the door more as much as he was looking at you, that was very satisfying. But you can’t help teasing him. “It’s not so romantic when your lover is expecting an ambush throughout.”

His mouth twitches as he buckles on his chest plate. “Safety first, Guardian.”

* * *

“The ships will be departing at zero-ten-hundred.”

You give Zavala a wan smile which collapses as soon as he heads out of the room. It’s not that you’re not glad to finally leave Titan, but you just feel so _sick_. As you try and buckle on your gear everything’s too tight across your middle. “How did I get fat when I can’t keep any rations down? Damn this being mortal thing. I hate it.”

When you look up you see that Amanda is giving you a funny look. Over her shoulder, so is Sloane.

“What?”

Amanda and Sloane talk about you as if you’re not there. “She couldn’t be. Could she?”

“I don’t know. I’ve seen the commander giving her _looks_. And you heard what she said. She’s mortal now.”

“But that’s gotta be impossible. Doesn’t it? She’s like…two hundred years old.”

You interrupt them. “What’s got to be impossible?”

Amanda gives a nervous laugh. “Sweetie, I think you’re pregnant.”

A movement from the door catches your eye. Zavala has appeared and he’s heard every word. He’s looking at you with an unreadable expression. Sloane and Amanda make themselves scarce, pushing past him and heading down to the ships.

He clears his throat. “We can’t keep the Hive off the landing platforms any longer. Go with Holliday.”

“But that’s not what you told me in the briefing. You’re flying with Amanda I’m going with the other Guardians.”

“I changed my mind.” And he holds out his arm, directing you down to the ships, his expression closed.

Amanda smiles to herself as you climb into the seat beside her. “I get the precious cargo, I see. Buckle up, Guardian. Let’s get you safely back to earth.”

The whole flight, Solitaire and Trieste float around your belly, whirring and whispering to each other. You’re too distracted and sick to listen to them.

* * *

The sound of tramping feet pull you up. “I know what you’re doing,” you announce to the tree in front of you, before turning around.

Zavala’s approaching, holding an auto rifle across his body. “Just patrolling, Guardian.”

No, he isn’t. He’s following you. Ever since you arrived at the Farm you haven’t had a moment to yourself. You, or the other Eves.

There are seven of you. Seven Guardians who’ve became pregnant since the Light was taken away. It came as a shock to all of you, and you’ve adjusted with varying degrees of success. Some are delighted. You still feel betrayed. By…something. There’s always an escort of some sort with you and you suspect it’s on Zavala’s orders.

“How do you feel about it?” You gesture vaguely at your belly. It. The Thing. The unwelcome hanger-on.

He thinks for a long time. Then you see his mouth twitch.

“You’re _pleased,_ ” you accuse.

He doesn’t say anything but his silence speaks volumes. He is pleased. You remember when Amanda was small and she was always hanging around him. The endless patience he had for her questions when he was working. Arranging for her to work in the hanger when at her age she could only have been a hindrance.

And look at Amanda now. The most trusted pilot the Guardians have. Whatever he did, he did a good job with her, the little refugee orphan who had nothing but traumatic memories.

But they had the Tower then. They had the City. This is right in the middle of a war that you’re supposed to be helping to fight. And you can’t.

“One time. One damn time,” you say through gritted teeth. “And between us we’re like a thousand years old. How does that that equal a baby? I’m a _Guardian_. I don’t want to be motherly. I’m not wired to be motherly, to sit and, I don’t know, crochet booties.”

He just looks at you, sympathetic, because there isn’t anything either of you can do about this. Then he glances at your belly. “May I?”

You sigh. “Go on. Everyone else does.”

But when he splays his hand flat on your swollen belly it doesn’t feel like how it does when everyone else does it. A smile touches his lips, and the world seems to contract down to just the two of you and that tender look on his face.

“Please don’t die,” you whisper, and he looks up, surprised. “Don’t leave me alone with this.”

“Same to you.”

“What?”

He looks around at the trees, back at your belly. “This isn’t the time or place for something like this. We’ve found a midwife among the refugees.” He smiles briefly. Humourlessly. “That’s it. That’s the extent of what I’ve been able to do for you. You and the other Eves.”

You walk together back onto the Farm in silence. Before you step out of trees you grab his hand and pull him back. “You do more than that.”

His thumb rubs over your knuckles. You want to say more but there aren’t any words left, and you hurry away.

* * *

It’s dusk and you’re lying on your pallet when someone comes into the room. Trieste and Solitaire are slumbering on your eight-and-a-half month belly. They say they like the sound of the second heartbeat. Trieste especially likes to cuddle up to you and often you find the little Ghost against your belly in the mornings.

It’s Zavala, and he sits down on the floor next to you with a bundle of wool in his hands and a thin silver needle.

“What are you doing?”

“Crochet.”

You narrow your eyes at him. “Is that supposed to be cute?”

“No. It’s meant to be helpful. I’ve taught half a dozen Titans to make booties, for all the Eves’ babies.” He glances at your belly. “But these ones are for ours.”

You reach up and grasp him by the shoulder of his shirt and pull him down to you. “You’re determined to be happy about this, aren’t you?”

His breath is on warm your mouth. “It’s very easy, actually.”

 _Bloody hell_. “I know I’m a walrus. But um, we could…”

He kisses you, and murmurs, “Please. I want to see you.”

Zavala undresses you slowly, and it’s awkward as you have to lay on your side throughout, but at least it’s warm and safe. He keeps his eyes on you, not the door, the whole time.

After, he lays beside you, stroking a hand through your hair. “The assault on the City is tomorrow.”

You stare at the ceiling. A whole City full of Cabal and their weaponry against a rag-tag team of exhausted Guardians. So many people are going to die. Maybe all of them.

“I feel so useless.” Tears slide down over your temples and into your hair. He sits up and wipes them away, frowning. As if he’s the one worried for you. You reach up and touch his face.  _I hope the baby has his brows. I hope that isn’t all I have left of him after tomorrow._

“Please,” you say, gripping his hand, not sure what you mean. Just _please_. _Don’t die. Don’t get hurt. Come back and…and just be here._

* * *

In the morning you stand with the other Eves watching the jump ships take off. “Interesting timing,” one them says with a twist of her mouth when the last one is in the air.

“What do you mean?” you ask.

She glances over you, the furthest along of all the Eves. “You’re due any day now. Safer if the commander’s baby is born once you’ve got your Light back, isn’t it.”

A sick feeling plunges through you. The timing hadn’t meant anything to you the night before but now it’s seems suspicious. The other Eves are silent. The fathers of their children are on those ships, all heading into the fight today because of the commander.

As the last ship slips over the horizon, a cramp seizes your belly and you double over with a gasp.

* * *

The radios fall silent at midnight. You hear Zavala’s last words to the one Guardian who has their Light in between your contractions. 

Arlise is born in the early hours of the morning, small and perfect and an angry shade of purple. As you hold her and watch her sleep she lightens to a shade of blue very similar to Zavala’s. Patterns of light swirl beneath her skin.

A fat tear plops onto her forehead and you wipe it away. You’re just tired. And sore. Solitaire has been told not to heal you in case it does something to your ability to breastfeed. “Tyra?” you call, and the Cryptarch, who helped with the birth, comes in. “Is there anything on the comms?”

The woman shakes her head. “Not yet. Be patient.”

“You hear anything, you’ll come and tell me, won’t you?”

Tyra gives you a tight smile and turns away, and you wonder if they’ll tell you if he’s dead, or if they’ll keep if from you as long as they can.

* * *

A hand on your shoulder makes you open your eyes, and you see him looking down at you, smiling.

“ _Zavala_.” You fling your arms around him and he holds you tightly. He smells like dust and blood and the battlefield, but he’s whole and alive.

“I didn’t know if I should wake you. I’ve been watching you sleep for the last half hour.”

“Have you seen Arlise?”

He smiles and nods, looking at the little cot in the corner. “I have. I haven’t picked her up yet, though. I was waiting for you. Can I?”

“Of _course_.”

You watch as he leans over the cradle, gently picking up the tiny sleeping baby in his large hands and holding her against his chest. “She’s perfect,” he says softly.

Trieste hovers over the commander’s shoulder. _[It’s my Guardian.]_

He looks up at the Ghost, confused. “Her name’s just Arlise. She’s not the same person.”

 _[No. It’s my Guardian. I have a Guardian again.]_ The little robot lights up and whirls excitedly. _[If…if you’ll let me be her Ghost. She’s got Light. I can feel it.]_

 _She’s got Light._ You can feel your own Light thrumming through you, and when Zavala sits on the bed beside you with Arlise in his arms you can feel his as well. And hers. Is that why Trieste kept so close all throughout the pregnancy? Did it know that this child could wield the Light if you ever got it back?

Zavala looks up from Arlise, his eyes very bright. “Would you look at that. We made a Guardian.”

* * *

_Thank you for reading! xx_


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